Sleepless nights, I remember the initiates, their gesture, their calm glance, I have heard how, in rapt thought, in vision they speak with another race More beautiful, more intense than this— I reason: another life holds what this lacks: a sea, unmoving, quiet, not forcing our strength to rise to it, beat on beat, a hill not set with black violets, but stones, stones, bare rocks, dwarf-trees, twisted, no beauty, to distract—to crowd madness upon madness. Only a still place, and perhaps some outer horror, some hideousness to stamp beauty— on our hearts. IV The third poet whose work I have to examine, Mr. F. S. Flint, was already an accomplished writer of rhymed vers libre before he joined the Imagist movement. Mr. Flint’s early work is contained in a volume entitled, _In the Net of the Stars_, a volume which is still worth reading. _The Net of the Stars_ told a love-story in rather uncommon fashion. The poet and his beloved were presented throughout the book, against the background of the starry sky: Little knots in the net of light That is held by the infinite Dragon, Night. This bringing into relation of a quite human love-story, with the impassive and changeless order of the Universe, threw a flavour of supreme irony over the whole book. The work is otherwise remarkable technically. At the date when it was published, 1909, Mr. Flint already revealed that he was an assiduous student of Verhaeren, De Regnier, and other French vers-librists. Hence its importance as a document in the Imagist movement. But to come to Mr. Flint’s later work which has been assembled under the title of _Cadences_. We find here a poet, first of all, of sentiment. What, you say, an Imagist who deals with sentiment? My reply to that is, that it is time people understood that an Imagist is free to deal with whatever he chooses, so long as he is sincere and honest about it. Mr. Flint’s sincerity is his finest point. He is in some sense the Paul Verlaine of the Imagist movement. His work gives one the same delicacy of nuance, the same fresh fragrance, the same direct simplicity, the same brooding melancholy. He lacks the strain of coarseness which ruined Verlaine; he has, in place of it, a refined nobility. He has not humour. At times he has attempted irony, but I cannot think he has altogether succeeded in it. He feels life too poignantly to ever mock at life. There remains tenderness, wistful pathos, imaginative beauty.